


Lionheart

by deciding



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Serpent!Jughead, Teenagers, They're 17, bughead - Freeform, bughead trash, but probably not dark and snake in the obvious way, cheesesteaks, dark!betty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-11-30 19:13:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11469912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deciding/pseuds/deciding
Summary: It was a Sunday afternoon when Betty revealed a new shade of color on her spectrum to Jughead.





	1. Nosferatu

 

It was a Sunday afternoon when Betty revealed a new shade of color on her spectrum to Jughead. He already knew about her shades of blue, calm and collected, holding everything in place. There were the pastels to her personality: pinks, yellows, and even periwinkle. She was a girl with depth, so she had harsh colors, too: blood red, orange as hot as the sun, and deep green underbelly. On Sunday, by happenstance, she shared a blue-toned red. It was concentration and drive and desire—entirely Betty. 

They’d gotten into a routine of studying together at the library on Sundays. It was one of the only ‘neutral’ places that remained in Riverdale. They used to study together in The Blue & Gold office after school, or rather, Betty would study and Jughead would work on his novel after they connected clues and worked theories for what Jughead called the murder board. But that was before the new version of Riverdale, with its civil war ongoing between the north side and south side. Jughead was _barely_ still welcome at Pop’s since his move to the south side more than a year ago, and he suspected it was only because he’d been Pop Tate’s most loyal customer since he was 6 years old. 

Betty was already at the library when Jughead arrived, tucked away in the corner, at the table where they always sat. Her back was turned to him as he approached. Her signature ponytail, blonde strands curled at the end, swished from side to side ever so slightly as her head bobbed. She had on a pair of wireless headphones. They’d been a Christmas gift from her sister Polly, teal in color—because as her sister, Polly knew that Betty’s signature pink wasn’t actually her favorite color—so she could pace around freely and block everything out when she needed to, without the wiring. 

“Hey,” Jughead greeted Betty as he neared their table. 

Betty didn’t hear him. Whatever she was listening to was truly cancelled by the noise-cancelling cans around her head. They were also in the library, so Jughead’s volume was less than his usual indoor voice. 

When he was at her shoulder, standing beside her, Jughead could see her reflection on the screen of her laptop, which had faded to black, unattended to. Betty had her eyes closed, listening intently to whatever was pouring through her headphones. 

The moment that Jughead tapped the sleeve of her pretty cream-colored cardigan, Betty’s fight-or-flight response kicked in. Her green eyes were wide as her shoulders tensed. She gasped on air as her head snapped up, meeting Jughead’s gaze as adrenaline pumped through her. She ripped the headphones off her head and tossed them on the table so hard that they skipped across the wooden ledge and fell to the floor beside what would be Jughead’s seat. Betty was clutching over her heart when she finally acknowledged him, “ _Jesus,_ Jug. You scared the shit out of me.” 

“Sorry,” Jughead answered sincerely, with a sheepish smile. “I didn’t know how else to get your attention.” 

He dumped his messenger bag from his flannel-clad shoulder onto the paper-cluttered table before leaning down to kiss her. Their lips met briefly and before opening his eyes, he whispered, “Hi.” 

Betty was smiling now, her heart rate returning to normal. She pressed a key on her laptop and the screen was illuminated by the login prompt. “Hi,” she returned. 

Before he pulled out the chair to sit, Jughead picked up Betty’s fallen headphones from the ground. Once he was slouched back in his seat, he adjusted the band of the headphones so that they could fit over the gray crown beanie that adorned his head. “What were you so wrapped up in, anyway?” 

As soon as the headphones were over Jughead’s ears, the smile dropped from Betty’s face and panic crept into her eyes. Jughead’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion as the music poured into his ears. 

The music wasn’t Betty Cooper. It was something more like him, but so far over the wrong side of the tracks that even he hadn’t ever dared venture there. It was angry yelling over loud noise so he didn’t understand how this could be her, how this could be her color on a Sunday. Yelling and fighting—marks of tepid family lives—were things that haunted both of them, bringing nothing but hurt and destruction into their lives. It was something that they’d talked about in the secrets that they’d shared with only each other. So how could this be what she was listening to? How could this be her color? 

“Betty,” he said her name like he was walking on eggshells and peeled the headphones off his ears, “are you working on a music review for The Blue & Gold?” 

It was all he could come up with as to why she would willingly let herself get lost in anger in audio form, because he knew very well about the darkness that she carried on her shoulders, years of expectation and feelings of defeat weighing her down. He knew very well that any more darkness was the last thing she needed. 

So it was the school paper, he decided. She’d been short-staffed since he transferred to Southside High. No one else cared to have The Blue & Gold on their college applications as much as Betty did, so she had to cover everything herself, including the articles that only the weird loner kids would ever read. Jughead felt awful about it quickly, that Betty was the last truly good person in their town, the last one who actually _cared_. She cared so much that she felt like she had to write for the disenfranchised youth, the kids like him. 

But Betty broke down the story Jughead had quickly fashioned in his head with a curt shake of her head. She took a breath and the panic in her eyes faded. She squared her shoulders and looked at Jughead with determination. 

“No. No, Juggie,” Betty told him in her regular indoor voice, not timid but not loud. “I just like it.”

Jughead’s eyes were lit up in stormy blue confusion. He didn’t understand. He knew that Betty was darkness but was also light, _his_ light. The music he’d just heard was nothing that he knew about Betty. It wasn’t the songs on the jukebox at Pop’s that she drummed her fingers along to. It wasn’t the self-indulgent dance pop music that she crooned along to with Veronica. It certainly wasn’t the record by The xx that he’d played for Betty the first time they had sex. It wasn’t even the music that had gotten him pegged as _that emo kid writing his murder diary_ or the biker bar tunes from the Whyte Wyrm that had become familiar to him because of the Serpents. 

It was a different kind of loud than death metal or glam screamo. It was pressing and desperate. Guttural. Pointed vocals over crunching guitars. Drum and bass that never fell out of sync. He didn’t understand. He _couldn’t_ understand. 

“Juggie,” Betty said his name again when she read his expression, “it-it’s helping me.” 

Slowly, she took her hands away from the keyboard of her computer and upturned her palms. Jughead reached over and took one of her hands in both of his. Silently, he studied the crescent-shaped marks there. It was far from the first time he’d seen Betty’s wounds before. He’d seen them fresh and healing and crusted over before, in all the different colors that Betty was. Now the crescents were like silhouettes, nearly faded and gone. 

Suddenly all the pretense was gone and all at once he understood. 

And even though he understood, Betty still gave him clarity, explaining herself. 

It started two summers ago, when she went to her internship in LA. Her roommate, Carla, wore dark lipstick and combat boots and put up tons of posters on her side of the room. Betty spent all her free time journaling and watching _Veronica Mars_ while her roommate figured out LA’s abysmal transit system to go see some of the bands that were featured in the posters. Carla was shocked when, during their last week there, Betty asked if she could load some of Carla’s music onto a jump drive for when she got home. 

She’d meant to listen to it, to see what was there that her roommate enjoyed so much. Betty was a journalist by nature, always asking questions, always curious about the different facets of people’s personalities. But everything happened so fast when Betty got back to Riverdale: getting rejected by Archie, becoming a River Vixen, starting The Blue & Gold back up, looking for Polly, clearing FP’s name, falling for Jughead. And that had been just the beginning. Between her mother’s expectations and Riverdale’s civil war, sometimes things got to be too much. Digging her nails into her palms was about keeping her darkness in check, to keep her from going over the edge, because she needed _something_. 

In the same way that she’d found the jump driving holding the video of Jason’s murder, in the lining of his letterman jacket, she found Carla’s music while sorting through old clothes in her closet around Christmas time for a clothing drive. It was in the pocket of the hoodie she got on the first day of the internship as a keepsake from the program. She’d plugged the jump drive into her computer and put on her headphones. It turned out to be a release for her. 

All the pressure and all her anxiety were ebbed away by the tension, the heaviness, in the music. For so long, she’d been coping with having to ‘calm down’ the dark place in her mind. But maybe, she thought, what she needed was a different kind of raw emotion, an outlet to go to instead of keeping it all in and trying to convince her mind to will it all away. 

That was what she heard when she listened to the hardcore music she’d gotten from Carla. It took her darkness to a different place. A better place. She could hang on to the words and the sounds with hope instead of regret and disappointment. She could turn her anger and pain into rhythmic patterns and her clenched fists into finger points at the air. 

So for a few months now, since December, that was what Betty had done. She put the headphones on and concentrated on the music. The energy of it was the same as her darkness. It was crude with an air of urgency. It gave her that same tension that she got in the pit of her stomach that had the potential to lead her to destruction, but instead, focusing on the words, on the messages in the thrashing songs, made Betty want to build something beautiful. It reminded her that the burdens on her shoulders, the burdens she carried through the halls of school and into the diner and brought to bed with her at night—they were blessed burdens. 

Because she was Betty fucking Cooper, and no one could handle the weight of the world like she could. She’d never stop standing up for what she believed in, never stop going to bat for the people she cared for, never stop looking for justice. Of course, that also meant that she was going to get knocked down and hurt by the cruel world, again and again. But such was a blessed burden, to have that much heart. 

Those were Betty’s qualities at seventeen. Those were the things that had been used against her, that pushed her to darkness. Now, equipped with dissonant sounds and poignant lyrics, her darkness built into light. 

It made her feel a little guilty. Since sophomore year, all of the bad shit in Jughead’s life has always been laid bare. Of his own accord or not, she’d always known of it. It was probably unfair that they really only trusted each other in their old haunt of a town and she’d kept this for herself. 

She was relieved after explaining it to him. She knew that he worried about her and how she handled everything that was on her plate. She knew she shouldn’t have kept this a secret from him for so long, not when she loved him as much as she did, not when he was the only one she’d ever trusted with her darkness. He listened, really listened, until she was through. He grazed his thumbs over the silhouettes on Betty’s palms, giving her reaffirmation that he accepted it. All of it. All of her. 

Later, when they were both engrossed in their studying, she snuck a peek at him, silently. He was working intently on a math problem from the SAT prep book that she’d insisted he should carry around, dark hair falling into his eyes even underneath his hat and front teeth digging into his bottom lip. Because if Jughead was going to get enough scholarship money to get away from Riverdale and the dark cloud of the Southside Serpents, he was going to need all the help he could get. 

When he finished the problem and circled an answer from the multiple-choice selection, Jughead looked up at Betty, catching her gaze, as if he had felt her watching him the whole time. 

“You okay, Betts?” he asked. 

“Juggie,” she said timidly, “do you think I’m different now? After what I told you?” 

Jughead furrowed his brows. “ _Different?_ ” 

Betty’s boyfriend was the least judgmental person in her life and he had literally just listened to her recount a spiel about why hardcore music had become important to her. But she didn’t want anything to change between the two of them. She’d only shown him a new color of herself; she didn’t want him to see her as a whole different person. She still wanted them to stay par for the course on their journey together—in suburban teenage angst, in getting out of Riverdale, and in the future. 

“Like, like do you think I’m…weird now?” Betty tried again. “You know, am I different?” 

“Come on, Betty. _Weird?_ ” Jughead snorted and pointed at the crown beanie atop his head. “You’re asking the wrong person.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went into this thinking it’d be a 4000-ish word one-shot. Then it turned into two scenes. Then that turned into four scenes. I don't really consider them 'chapters', but I thought I'd break them up as such anyway.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! Comments are always appreciated. <3
> 
> [Story Notes on tumblr](http://jerepars.tumblr.com/post/162853405855/lionheart-story-notes).


	2. Melancholia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit NSFW, a little bit cute.

In post-coital bliss, Betty’s color was rose. That specific shade of pink was her entire aura. The flush of her cheeks. The swollenness of her lips. The way that the glow of her frilly lamp made her fanned-out hair look strawberry blonde as she sunk back against the petal sheets. The dreamy look in her eyes as she looked back at Jughead.

It was in those moments that Jughead’s whole world, very briefly, was rose-colored, too. Because being with Betty was like recollection of everything good that once was, when he’d been an unbreakable boy playing make believe in his treehouse, and an oath of everything good yet to come, now that he was in the in-between of boy and man. And he got to spend the interlude with her warmth, her big dreams, her smiles like sunset.

He touched the tip of his nose to hers and it felt intimate, almost as intimate as what they’d just done. He was still inside her and their breathing was still ragged. She tilted her chin and pulled the back of his neck down until their lips met, exchanging languid kisses full of apologies and promises. Jughead didn’t pull out of her until they were rolled onto their sides, blushed cheeks pressed to the same pillow, facing each other. Even then, Betty hooked one of her legs with his and he snuck a hand onto the small of her back, drawing patterns against her spine.

They stayed like that quietly for a long time, eyes locked on each other, communicating without words, hues of rose lingering in the air. It wasn’t until Betty moved in and rested her head against the crook of his neck and outwardly sighed that Jughead broke the silence. The whimsy tones surrounding them started to fade away back into harsh reality.

“Hey. Hey, what is it?” he asked softly. “I mean, besides everything.”

And it was just that, Betty thought, _everything_. It had been a tough last few weeks for both of them. The sex they’d just had was some version of make up sex.

Neither of them was mad. They just hadn’t been spending a lot of time with each other lately and in the little time they were together, they got into petty arguments. She had too many extracurriculars. Everyone wanted a piece of her. Everyone wanted a favor. Jughead didn’t like asking for favors and with so much going on, it had started to feel like asking to hang out with his own girlfriend was asking for a favor.

He, on the other hand, was caught between loyalty to the Serpents—because they really did have his back and life on the south side was better with them in his corner—and doing everything he could to get out of their grasp, with fear that one day he wouldn’t be able to. It wasn’t like the gang gave much responsibility to the younger Serpents, like him, who were teenagers. A lot of it was actually just delivering groceries to Serpent families and standing in the background when there was more ‘serious’ business for the full-fledged Serpents to tend to, to increase the number of leather-clad bodies, for the intimidation factor. The problem was that it took up time. He’d gotten caught up in Serpent business the week before and he didn’t study for his Physics test, which he subsequently failed, which no doubt would drop his GPA unless he aced every assignment and test for the rest of the semester. It would be a tall order on top of his other classes and the whole being in a gang thing. 

Betty hadn’t tried to hide her disappointment when he’d told her about it. That brought up his defense mechanisms, insecurities bubbling at the surface, and he’d snarled something stupid about how maybe he should stop fighting fate, that despite his efforts maybe he wasn’t meant to make it out of Riverdale after all. They’d definitely argued about that, because one thing Betty would never accept was someone that she loved, that she believed in, ever giving up on himself.

Somehow their fight ended on the sidewalk outside of Jughead’s foster family’s house a few days later. She’d told him that she wasn’t trying to push him or change him and she knew he could make the right decisions for himself. He’d told her that he would try harder, not just for her but for himself, too, because of course leaving Riverdale behind was still what he wanted. From the beginning, they’d mutually agreed that everything with the Serpents for him, and with managing everyone’s expectations for her, was temporary. They’d realized pretty early on in their relationship that what they did while they were in the interlude of Riverdale, singularly, was for a goal that converged, together. It wasn’t just about getting out. It was about thriving once they did.

So they’d already made up but tonight was the first time they’d seen each other since that night on the south side. Every feeling, every touch, every word was laced with _everything_.

Betty returned to Jughead’s question, squeezing his waist too tightly. “I really missed you, Jug.”

Jughead moved to press a kiss into her hair. “I missed you more.”

Saying those words out loud made the last few weeks feel like a waste of time. Given that their time together was limited, they should’ve let their bodies do the talking, they should have let Betty’s shades of bubblegum and cupcake frosting glaze over them. Because now cuddling until they fell asleep in Betty’s bed wasn’t an option. Polly and the twins were spending the night at Cheryl’s, but Betty’s parents would be home in less than an hour and Jughead had to be back on the south side for his curfew.

“And Betts?” Jughead spoke again.

“Hmm?”

“I’m right here,” Jughead pulled his head back to look her in the eye, “okay?”

She knew exactly what he meant, no further explanation needed. The corners of her mouth upturned ever so slightly with appreciation. 

“So, listen,” Betty brought up a new topic, “there’s a show in Philly next month. It’s during the weekend that my parents are going to visit my grandparents in Florida.”

It was Jughead’s turn to smile a little bit, the dimple just beside his lips indenting the left corner of his mouth. Ever since Betty’s big reveal that she’d found something that was a counterpoint to the destructive part of the darkness she had inside of her, she hadn’t slowed down.

So he knew that mentioning the show in Philadelphia wasn’t asking for permission that she didn’t need. Betty was her own person. She was just stating facts, giving him information, and maybe an invitation, if he wanted it.

That was how they’d grown, into themselves and in their relationship. They were equals. Neither of them was going to ‘save’ the other. They provided each other with raw, honest support, which was something much bigger than saving someone.

Begrudgingly, they’d even already had the talk about potentially not being invincible. They didn’t like to think that their love was merely teenage emotion, a fragile fleeting thing. It couldn’t be just that, not with everything they’d already been through. But _if_ their futures didn’t end up coexisting in the end, which they hated to acknowledge was a possibility, they still wanted for each other to make it out and make it good.

Jughead thought that they must’ve been the oldest seventeen year olds in the tri-state area. They were like seventeen going on 30, working through their issues and having make up sex and not having any misguided grandeur ideas about saving each other. They were growing up and they were changing, but they were still doing it together. Nothing that they’d built was lost.

By the look in Betty’s eyes of seaglass, Jughead could tell that she’d made up her mind. She was going to Philadelphia next month. When Betty decided she was going to do something, she never backed down.

“Philly?” he shaped the city’s name as a question. “There’s nothing closer, like in the city? Or New Jersey?”

Betty had nothing against the city—New York—but she still wrinkled her nose. “I don’t want to be that close to home. Come on, when do I ever get to cross state lines without my parents knowing?”

Jughead groaned into her shoulder. “Why do I get the feeling that I’m about to agree to something that will potentially get me buried in Alice Cooper’s flower bed?”

He really shouldn’t have made a jab at Betty’s mother, especially when he and Betty were naked in bed together on a school night because she was working late at the Register. Especially when it was Alice Cooper’s health insurance plan that paid for Betty’s birth control so they could have safe sex, even if she didn’t acknowledge or condone what they were doing, even if they were just fumbling teenagers still figuring it out. Polly and Jason had been fumbling teenagers, too, and the fallout still lingered.

But it was a very real visual that Jughead could see in his mind—Alice Cooper hitting him over the head with a shovel and then burying him under mulch and hydrangeas if anything bad were to ever happen to her daughter on his clock.

“You’re agreeing then?” Betty laughed at the visual herself and nudged him hopefully. “You’ll go with me?”

“Maybe you should tell me about your master plan first.” Jughead huffed lightheartedly. “If I’ll be risking my life and all.”

“I’ve just been thinking about the basics so far: transportation, accommodations, tickets to the show, obviously.” Betty rattled off a quick list. “And snacks, if you’re coming with me.” Her last addition to the list earned her a smirk from Jughead before she continued, “I was really thinking that weekend could be _our_ plan.”

He had ended up liking the new music that she liked. He understood what drew her to it. He did think that there was some irony in the fact that it was _her_ thing. Between the two of them, he seemed like the much more likely candidate to be into it, what with the way he dressed in dark colors and his biting sarcasm and overall aloof attitude of a loner from the wrong side of the tracks. The music was great, in its composition and even in philosophy, but it wasn’t what he needed. It was what Betty needed.

And Betty, with all her ferocity, never did anything halfway. She’d shared her Spotify playlists with him, all neatly organized by era and sub-genre and even geography. Because of Betty, he knew that there was a difference between powerviolence and youth crew, then an even bigger difference between those two and melodic hardcore. The bands from Boston played a different style than bands from LA, and the best bands from New Jersey belonged to the niche of post-hardcore.

Like any dignified journalist, Betty did her due diligence with research, having DIY ‘zines addressed to Jughead and sent to his foster house (so that Alice Cooper never knew) and engaging in long discussions on message boards about the significance of the role of women in hardcore. The subculture even came with its own diction; where concerts and fans were _shows_ and _kids_ , respectively, and she’d incorporated it into the flow of her own speech seamlessly.

Jughead was proud of Betty. After all, he was a feminist, too, just like she was. So he was glad that that she was doing what she wanted, of her own volition. And for _her_ – not for anyone else.

The opportunity, a show, was something that Betty had been waiting for, Jughead knew. She was involved now. She was invested. She’d read a lot about local shows and ‘supporting your local scene’. She’d wanted to have the experience of a show for months but hardcore and its sub-genres that she’d come to love weren’t really a thing in Riverdale, or Centerville or Greendale, for that manner. She’d have to go to a city, where there were enough kids who felt its enchantment just like her, if she was going to get what she wanted.

It was even a perfect piece of rhetoric. The _everything_ that brought Betty to darkness was in Riverdale. It was only fitting that a different kind of darkness that brought her back to the light was a two-hour drive out of the toxic town.

Betty shifted on the bed so that her skin contact with Jughead was from torso up, her bare breasts flush against his chest. “I’ll take you to one of those pretentious cafes that you’re always going on about,” she said against his lips and then placed breathy kisses along his jawline. “I’ll buy you a $5 cup of black coffee.”

Like the lighting of a match, the reaction she got from Jughead was instant. His ocean eyes darkened into a storm and his hands tangled into her blonde locks. “You will?”

She placed a palm on his torso briefly for leverage and swung a leg over his hips so that she straddled him, his back pinned to the mattress. She chose her perfect spot to sit, where she could feel his arousal growing again. They’d both been virgins when they first got together; their early sexual endeavors had been awkward, short, and without follow up on any given night. But now recovery time between rounds of sex seemed to be getting faster for both of them as the days went by, especially with them seeing each other so infrequently lately. Jughead’s hands moved to rest on the backs of her thighs. She kissed him hard on the mouth once before blowing hot air at his neck. “You know they have Chipotle in Philly, right?”

A tiny groan erupted from Jughead’s throat. His fingers dug deeper into Betty’s thighs, moving up towards her ass. His grip ground her further against his groin and she bucked against his touch. Her torture was sweet. Very Betty. She made the room warmer just by reacting to him. She brought back those whimsical notes of color that enfolded him whenever they got wrapped up in each other. He could feel her heat mounting underneath his belly button as his dick was pressed into her inner thigh. And all she’d done was talk about burritos.

He kissed her, slipping his tongue in her mouth that tasted like cotton candy, taking some of the power. He palmed at one of her breasts, then pinched her nipple, and she moaned under his touch. He moved his hand down between them, caressing her lightly before thumbing her clit. 

Betty gasped at the contact and her eyelids fluttered shut. Jughead drew circles against her clit with his thumb and she tugged at his hair. He thought it was hot as hell, Betty on top of him, covering his body with her own, breathless and hips gyrating against him because of his touch.

When he slipped a finger inside her, they both groaned. She was smooth and slick and hot and he felt rough. She pulled back from him a little bit, resting her palms on his pecks. He added another long finger and she bit her lip, trying to muffle the moan. He watched her, riding his digits, head tilted back and murmuring her pleasure.

“Jug,” her voice was husky when she found it. “Juggie, please.”

The obvious response was _please what_? But they were so past foreplay, so past pleading with all the things they’d already done to each other earlier. Jughead went with a different approach, feeling the tightness in his stomach from his throbbing erection, well aware that Betty’s parents could be home any minute and she definitely didn’t have a lock on her door.

“Betty.” Jughead whispered her name, moving his free hand up to her face. “Betty.”

Her eyes opened and her gaze met his. “What?”

His fingers were still curled and moving inside her as he spoke. “What else?”

“ _What?_ ” Betty furrowed her brows, practically panting.

“In Philly. You said coffee and Chipotle,” Jughead said it so nonchalant, even-toned. “What else?”

The lopsided smile that had been threatening to spread on his face turned into a shit-eating grin. Betty restrained herself from guffawing. The whole thing was her fault. She’d wiggled her way into his lap by talking about Philadelphia’s junk food selection. He was just getting payback.

“Wow,” Betty teased him, pulling away from his fingers and goading him with a taste of his own medicine, using his familiar words, “that’s what you’re thinking about in the middle of— _oh_ —”

She yelped and never made out the end of the sentence. While she let his fingers leave her heat and thought she’d conjured up something clever to say, he lined himself up with her entrance and sheathed his cock inside her. With his first upward thrust they both sighed, muttering their appreciation for each other. Subsequent thrusts were returned by Betty, giving back the push and pull, rocking her hips against his, building a rhythm together.

For awhile they were quiet, only the sound of breathing and skin against skin filling the room. Jughead’s hands were on Betty’s ass, anchoring her as he pushed up into her. She moved her body back over his so that their foreheads touched. Her fingers twisted into the matted raven hair at the nape of his neck. She liked riding him, really, she did. It made her feel sexy—a rare feat for her—when he was looking up at her with dark hooded eyes of lust. But she also wanted to be close to him when the waves of pleasure rippled and broke.

The night would end. Jughead would drive back to the south side. She probably wouldn’t see him again for a few days. Maybe even an entire week. She could at least send him off properly with a reminder of exactly what he was missing when they were apart. She wanted him clutching at her. She wanted to hear him grunt her name through gritted teeth, his warm breath tickling her skin. She liked being the one who made his eyes roll back in his head as he found his release. 

Her movement to get nearer to him changed the angle of penetration so that his upward thrusts were deeper as they rocked against each other. It sent both of them reeling.

“ _Fuck_ , Betts,” Jughead gritted out through his teeth, just like she wanted him to.

He grazed her collarbone lightly with his lips and teeth. She pawed at his cheek and purred, “ _Juggie_.”

She realized then, well on her way to her orgasm, that she hadn’t answered Jughead’s question: what else?

It was hard to think about anything other than what their bodies were doing, much less edible choices in the home of Benjamin Franklin. But she was Betty Cooper and she was nothing if not prepared. She wouldn’t have started telling him about the food options if she didn’t know them, plus backups. The last option was the most geographically cliché.

“Jug.” She pressed a thumb to the center of his bottom lip and she got that look from him that she wanted, hooded eyes dark with devotion and desire. Betty planted a sloppy kiss at the corner of his mouth and then nipped at his earlobe. She had time to gasp out a word just as he moved his hand back between them. “Cheesesteaks.”

It wasn’t long that Jughead was stroking at her hot button with his hand, at the same time that he was stroking into her with his cock, before she was seeing stars behind closed eyes. Then they were shuddering against each other, moaning out strings of vowels and humming each other’s names into the ethereal air of her bedroom.

They were sweaty and sated, holding each other and catching their breaths before anyone dared to speak and break the serene silence. Jughead drew the outline of a crown on her shoulder with his index finger and Betty slid her foot against his shin. He couldn’t imagine a time when he wouldn’t want to be wrapped up in the color of the magic spell she cast.

“Just so you know,” Jughead intertwined their fingers and kissed Betty’s knuckles, finally making his confession, “you had me at ‘snacks’.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I was writing this, as soon as I wrote ‘snacks’ the first time, mid-way through, I knew exactly where this scene was going to end and how it was going to get there. All because of one word. I had a different ending planned for this scene that was very standard, without more sex and mentions of burritos and Philly cheesesteaks. I think this might be more appropriate (it probably so _is not_ appropriate). If Jughead doesn't love a lot of things or people, then the only thing Jughead loves more than food is Betty, right? Or is it that the only thing Jughead loves more than Betty is food?
> 
> Thank you so much to all that have left kudos and comments! It really does mean a lot and they are very much appreciated. <3
> 
> [Story notes on tumblr](http://jerepars.tumblr.com/post/163281424265/lionheart-extended-story-notes).


	3. Neruda

It felt like they moved heaven and earth to make Betty’s weekend in Philadelphia happen. Compared to what had become the norm of their lives in Riverdale though, it was nice to have something else to focus on, to protect, to make sure the plan was going to work out.

For the time being, while his father was incarcerated, one of Jughead’s few material possessions was FP’s old truck. In what little time they seemed to be spending together, Betty had even helped him work on it a few times to make sure he could make it around both sides of town. But although the road trip was short, there was no telling if the truck would be able to make it to Philadelphia and back without a hitch. The whole point of planning out their weekend was to avoid any hitches—even the _possibility_ of hitches—so FP’s truck was out.

Jughead made arrangements to borrow the often-neglected car Veronica had gotten for her sixteenth birthday the year before. What did a rich girl with a chauffeur need with a Lexus hybrid anyway? Although it pained Betty and Jughead to be driving a vehicle whose engine didn’t purr until it was going well over 40 miles per hour, it was the best option they had. It was easy with Veronica. Jughead mentioned that Betty wanted to go to an exhibit at The Rosenbach and he wished he could take her…and Veronica took the bait. _Anything for my B_ , she’d said all too quickly as she flipped her hair over her shoulder.

It was only a partial lie. They still planned on going to The Rosenbach. That just wasn’t the main reason they needed to make a two-hour drive. Betty backed him up on his story when Veronica brought it up in conversation.

Then Veronica, with all her good intentions for her best friend who didn’t get to spend enough time with her broody boyfriend, asked if they needed somewhere to stay while they were in Philadelphia. The Lodge family reach was vast and she knew a guy (of course she knew a guy) that could probably get them a deal right downtown, in Center City.

Between the two of them, Betty and Jughead had enough money to pre-pay for two nights at the hotel that Veronica insisted was not out of their league or class, given the steep discount. They had enough money for the gas and parking, too. Betty’s half came from the allowance she’d saved up for months—it wasn’t like she would be missing out on money not spent in Riverdale. Jughead certainly didn’t have an allowance in foster care but he had some cash, petty cash, more than he’d ever carried in his wallet before. Because of the Serpents.

Jughead could count the number of good things being a Serpent had provided to him on one hand. It had never occurred to him that the fake ID they’d provided him with ‘just in case’, that said he was 23 and from Delaware, would be useful for anything other than Serpent business.

Veronica got an early check-in for her friends, but she couldn’t do anything about the fact that the hotel, like any standard hotel, required a person to be 21 to check in. The front desk attendant just started typing on the computer when Jughead handed over the small plastic card identifying him simply as Forsythe Jones—no Pendelton, and not the third. The lack of a middle name on his supposed driver’s license should have been a dead giveaway that it was fake, he thought (not to mention that Philadelphia was literally in the Delaware Valley, so he assumed a least a few legitimate Delaware IDs would have come across the desk before), but the attendant didn’t even bat an eyelash.

He wasn’t sure if he actually passed for 23, but gone were the days of his fresh faced 15-year-old emo loner kid self. His scowl was more weathered these days. No longer just tall and lanky, he’d filled out his frame more, growing into his broad shoulders and getting more lean rather than the scrawny type he’d been before. He’d always been scrappy, but now he could hold his own, take a punch and deliver one if need be. He was _still_ that same kid he’d always been, more interested in old films and the power of words than violence and revenge. Though he was anything but soft these days – being on the south side and being a Serpent had taken care of that.

But Jughead still felt clammy when he had to give a credit card for room incidentals, using the only credit card of FP’s that wasn’t in collections—why any financial institution would trust a Jones with revolving credit was still beyond Jughead—since the names on the ID and credit card had to match. Again, the desk attendant didn’t seem to notice or care, having him sign a few sheets of paper and handing over two key cards in a tiny envelope with the hotel parent company’s insignia on it.

He didn’t really like being Forsythe Jones from Delaware. He felt much better holding Betty’s hand in the elevator, seventeen and Jughead Jones, both of them giggling about what they were getting away with, like they were living on the edge. They hadn’t gotten to do the short road trip in FP’s old truck like something out of a Great American Romance but they’d still listened to Bruce Springsteen singing of wild hearts, blue jeans, and white t-shirts as they’d meandered south through New Jersey on the Turnpike.

Jughead’s shoes and beanie were first to go when they got to the room. He catapulted onto the king sized bed and groaned at just how plush it was, just like all the TripAdvisor reviews had promised. “Betts, come here.”

Not even five minutes in and she had taken to the task of organization: her clothes in the closet, her toiletries into the bathroom, the leftover snacks from the car onto the table and into the mini refrigerator. None of her road trip attire was shed in the way Jughead had unceremoniously dumped his stuff. Her ivory cardigan still clung to her body over a paisley print tank top.

Betty put her hands on her hips and spoke with eyes slightly narrowed, “I think it’s a little early to be christening the room, Jughead.”

“I think _you’re_ the one with your mind in the gutter.” Jughead stifled a laugh. Betty rarely ever addressed him by the full weight of his nickname-first-name. When she did she was usually a little upset with him or trying to make a point. “All I was doing was calling you over. Honestly.”

He adjusted some of the pillows and sunk back against them. He closed his eyes for a few moments, hoping to feel the bed dip beside him as indication that Betty had joined him.

Instead, he heard the digital snap of Betty’s phone camera. When Jughead moved to look at her, a tiny smile played on her lips, phone still pointed at him. 

“ _Hey_ ,” Jughead chided inquisitively, “what are you doing?”

“Texting Veronica.” Betty finally started walking towards him, stopping at the foot of the bed and sitting down beside Jughead’s socked feet. She tucked one yoga pants-clad leg under her and let the other dangle off the bed. “To thank her. I thought I’d add in some visual representation, you being so comfortable and all.”

The thought of Veronica receiving a picture of him sans beanie, eyes closed, sprawled out like he’d left all his problems behind in Rockland County actually made him _uncomfortable_. Exposed. He sat up and snatched the phone from Betty quickly.

She wasn’t expecting it and put up a quick protest, “What the hell, Jug!”

Without even glancing at what she’d been typing, he turned the screen of the phone off and slid it into his back pocket, so things would have to get more intimate before she got it back. “Later,” he said with the glint of a smirk.

Betty rolled her eyes and poked at his side. “Okay, I’m here. I came over. So…what?”

Jughead used his chin to point at the pillow pile beside his and then patted the empty space next to him. “Come _here_. Lay back.” He gestured at the ceiling. “Look. Listen.”

With an exasperated sigh, Betty kicked her shoes to the floor and shifted on the bed. Jughead moved back to his sprawled out position, making room for his girlfriend. Betty pulled the tie out of her signature ponytail, letting her golden tresses fall against her shoulders before her head met a pillow. She followed Jughead’s lead, letting her limbs sink into the mattress and looking up into the expanse of the ceiling above them.

He thought that the color theme of the hotel bed suited her, like it was her own color theme. The sheets, the pillows, the bedspread—all white. The stark white was like a reflection of Betty, not sterile, but _pure_. Like soft moonlight and newborn kittens. Marshmallows and clean perfume. Despite everything that had happened in their lives, in their cursed town, she was still an optimist. No one could take away the part of her that was pure Betty Cooper: dreaming, caring, and fighting for something better, always.

A few beats lapsed and Betty let it be, her eyes darting to the crown mouldings and the fire sprinklers briefly before settling straight up again. Out of the corner of her eye, from her peripheral vision, she could see Jughead, his eyes fixed to one spot.

“We’re…” Betty trailed off and frowned, like there was some punch line she should have already gotten. “We’re looking at the ceiling, right?”

“Yup,” Jughead’s reply was fast and casual.

“Sorry, Juggie.” Betty’s frown was replaced with a full-on grimace. She shifted her head to look at him. “I don’t get it.”

“Just…look. Listen.” Jughead repeated the same words, this time gesturing around them. “You can hear the city traffic outside. And this blank canvas above our heads. It’s pure and unadulterated, ready to be whatever we want it to be, whatever we want it to mean.”

Betty’s expression softened at his words. She could hear the sounds of the city, faintly, through the glass of their hotel window. It wasn’t the same white noise that filtered through when they were in their small town. It wasn’t the sound of vultures in the woods of Eversgreen Forest or the current of Sweetwater River or the deafening silence of her neighborhood at three in the morning. It was vibrancy—cars honking, sirens in the distance, footsteps walking purposefully on pavement. And the blank ceiling above her and Jughead was pristine with endless possibilities. Untainted. Un-ruined. They were far from home, and not only in distance. 

“It’s nice, Juggie,” she agreed with him. 

“It’s more than that,” he continued. “I feel like I can breathe. I can actually think clearly.”

Betty humored him for a few more minutes, because it really did feel lighter to be out of Riverdale. She rolled to her side and snuggled into the soft flannel of his shoulder. “We’re getting pretty philosophical over a popcorn ceiling.”

“I think I love being out of Riverdale.” Jughead flashed a smile, a real smile with teeth that went up to his sapphire eyes. “And I do love popcorn so…”

She didn’t know if it was the infectious nature of his genuine smile or the quick quip about one of the foods that he loved, but Betty pulled her head back and giggled. Their mood was light and she felt a little lightheaded, like she’d inhaled too much laughing gas. Jughead looked _happy_ , which was a rarity, and that was enough to make her giddy.

If she thought about it long and hard, it was stupid, really, to make inflections and put expectations on a ceiling. It was ridiculous. So she giggled.

Jughead stilled her, a hand coming up to her neck, fingers grazing her jawline.

He sighed before he spoke. “That’s one of my favorite sounds in the world – your laugh. Maybe even my most favorite.”

Betty felt a pang in her chest and her eyes filled with light as bright as the sunshine filtering through the linen curtains. She closed her hand over his, not saying anything.

His eyes never faltered from hers when he spoke again. “I love you, Betty.”

The pang in Betty’s chest became a fluttering in her heart, her stomach, all the way down to her toes. Every time he said it was like the first time. It was a reminder and a promise. A declaration that made her weak in the knees even when she was lying still.

“I love you,” she told him with stars in her eyes, “so much, Juggie.”

Their lips met in a kiss briefly before she rested her head against his chest. She felt the tears forming in her eyes even before his arm went around her.

They’d never been one of those _‘I love you’ ‘I love you, too’_ couples, who had to say it daily in passing. Back when she was a child, she’d thought that that was part of love, a fundamental of it, even, always telling the one you loved that you loved them. But being with Jughead, and loving him, she knew it didn’t have to be that way. In fact, she _didn’t_ want it to be that way, not anymore. Jughead didn’t have to tell her constantly that he loved her. She knew. She felt it in everything that he did for her—the way he looked at her, the way he talked to her, even the way he moved when he was inside of her, whether they were taking it fast or slow.

When he told her that he loved her, it was always special. It was earnest. So she didn’t mind that they didn’t say those words to each other constantly and that when they did, it was in hushed tones, like a secret vow that only they were privy to. She never wanted those words to lose their meaning and run hollow.

That was what brought the tears to the surface, the blunt honesty Jughead was willing to give her. It made her feel safe. She reveled in the glory of being the one—the _only_ one—who got to see Jughead Jones that way. He took down his walls of protection for her. He set aside his biting sarcasm and sardonic remarks. He showed her his best and his worst. He let her in. He let her see him.

And, in turn, she let him see her, with all her imperfections. Everything she covered up to world, she let herself be brave enough to let him see. They were vulnerable to each other. They were just parts, misfits, her trying to meet everyone’s expectations and him trying to break expectations of amounting to nothing. But they were the pieces that fit together. Together, they were whole.

When Jughead felt the dampness on his shirt, he picked her head up, cupping her face in his palms, letting the tears flow over his knuckles. “Betts,” he said gently, “I didn’t think I was going to make you cry.”

Betty shook her head quickly. “No, Jug, I’m okay. I’m—”

She took a breath and gave him a watery smile. “—I’m happy.”

They both wiped at her eyes, her face, until the mess of tears was gone. She took off her cardigan, because crying always made her feel like she’d overheated. She swiped a tissue from the bedside table and blew her nose.

She meant what she said. They weren’t sad tears. Jughead could see another one of her colors in the rings of her jade eyes. It was a shade of what he thought she reflected earlier when she’d joined him on the plush hotel bed. It was still pure, but it was something else, too. More electric. Orbiting around the black of her pupils it was there: white, hot fire. The color was just like all the fiery hardcore songs she’d come to like, blinding light emanating, sparkling embers flying. And the fire in her eyes wasn’t only just for herself or for him. It was for _them_ , as individuals and together.

Things were rough in Riverdale. They weren’t going to get easier. But being in a city away from home felt easier. It was just them, without the outside pressures and expectations weighing them down. The city showed that they were so close to making it out, if they could just hold on a while longer.

“I’m glad that we’re here,” Jughead mused out loud.

Jughead had doubts. He always had doubts and fear. That was a byproduct of growing up around an alcoholic father who loved him but could never keep his shit together and a mother who’d abandoned him and taken his sister away, too. People left. He was always left behind. He still wasn’t entirely convinced that Betty wouldn’t one day leave him behind, too.

But a preview of the life he yearned for, in a big city, without the curse of his troubled past home life, and _with_ Betty, it snapped him to attention. He wanted to be all in.

Betty’s reply was simple as she leaned in to kiss him again. “I’m glad, too.”

Her hands went into his hair, fingers sliding through soft black strands. They shifted on the bed as their tongues met, with Jughead moving over top of her so that their hips met as well. He rested his weight on his forearms trying not to crush her. He moved his ministrations to Betty’s neck, placing hot open-mouthed kisses down a row until he was at her collarbone. She tugged on his hair a little, enjoying it, and he smiled when he got to her décolletage.

“So,” he spoke against her delicate skin, voice innocent, “you were saying something earlier about christening the room?”

The fire in her eyes was still there when he pulled back to look at her. She decked his shoulder and he fell against her, smirking into her shoulder. Betty sighed and let out a chortle. Her giggles filled the room, floating up into the air, as Jughead’s fingers slipped under the hem of her shirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Extended Story Notes on tumblr](http://jerepars.tumblr.com/post/163668727340/lionheart-extended-story-notes), as usual.
> 
> Thank you for reading. Huge thank you to everyone that’s left kudos and comments. It means so much to me and a gigantic smile breaks out on my face whenever I get the notifications for them. <3
> 
> Let me know what you think! Let’s be friends on tumblr! Let’s talk about our OTP (or anything else)! I promise I’m nice!


	4. Lolita

They ate a late lunch at the Chipotle close to the hotel, after the business of christening the room was settled, and walked the mile and a half so they could climb the Rocky Steps. But instead of going into the actual Philadelphia Museum of Art that the famous steps went up to, they walked back over to The Rosenbach, which wasn’t far from the hotel, to check out the collections and exhibitions. They took a selfie for Veronica, for good measure, to replace the picture of Jughead sprawled out on the bed that Betty would have sent otherwise. Betty bought Jughead his $5 cup of pour-over coffee, as promised, and he sipped it slowly when they strolled through the aisles of the Target right in Rittenhouse Square.

They arrived back in the hotel room holding eco-friendly bags filled with candy and souvenirs (Pilot G2 pens that were on sale) – fare for the drive when they would have to go back to Riverdale. Both of them felt a little anxious as the early evening hours hit. It was almost time for the show, the whole reason for their weekend rendezvous.

Jughead found _American Graffiti_ on their hotel room TV. He paid mild attention to it while sitting at the small table where Betty had arranged the leftover snacks when they’d arrived before noon. The pitter-patter of his typing barely registered as his fingers flew over the surface of his laptop keyboard, a burst of inspiration from the city’s vibrancy hitting him.

In the bathroom, Betty carefully applied her makeup. She didn’t want to look like the Riverdale High Welcome Committee good girl version of herself. But she didn’t want to overdo it and come off as a poser, either.  She’d invested too much of her time in hardcore subculture to be pegged as a girl who was at the show for all the wrong reasons. She straightened her hair with the flat iron she’d stashed in her toiletries bag. Betty slowly gave herself pin-up girl eyes—winged liner so sharp it could cut a bitch, then put on a few coats of waterproof mascara. She’d watched a dozen videos on YouTube about how to attain the perfect natural contour, but she didn’t feel like it was the right night to attempt it for the first time, so she just went with a light dusting of bronzer and her favorite pink blush. She pushed the beauty guru thoughts of choosing the right tone of bronze for her skin coloring and her mother’s probable thoughts about her eye makeup being too risqué to the back of her mind. Her hands were a little shaky as she applied liquid lipstick to the curves of her mouth, trying to be as neat as possible with the little doe foot applicator.

Jughead was adjusting the straps of his suspenders around his shoulders when she stepped out of the bathroom. He’d actually be wearing the suspenders instead of letting them dangle freely around his hips, worn-in black jeans clipped into the suspenders that were strapped around his black shirt with the ‘S’ embossed in gray. He should have brought a belt with him to forego the suspenders. But then again, he was about to venture into new territory, so it seemed only fitting that he dressed in his favorite clothes, beanie securely fastened on his head. He was putting an arm though the sleeve of a gray flannel shirt, plaid pattern made with white stripes and black squares, when he noticed Betty standing in the doorway.

“Wow,” he breathed as she walked up to him, taking in the sight of her.

Her attire was simple and relaxed, nothing fancy. Just high-waisted dark wash skinny blue jeans that hugged her skin and a plain black v-neck t-shirt. Her feet were clad in her favorite pair of well worn-in Converse. He noticed that her eye makeup was catlike, accenting the specks of olive in the seaglass of her eyes.

But his gaze was fixed on her lips. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, maybe he’d thought she would have gone with a blue-toned red that simultaneously matched her pin-up girl eyes and silently screamed she was one of them, just another hardcore kid in the crowd. Maybe he’d thought she would go even darker, with a black cherry or a vampy purple – a lot of the girls at Southside High who dated Serpents or girls like Toni, who were Serpents themselves, seemed to favor those colors.

But Betty wasn’t trying to be anyone else other than Betty. Her lips were painted in a mauve tone, the perfect mix of a shy violet and pink, with a brown undertone. That mauve was her color of the night, a study in contrasts. Innocent but sexual. Warm but cool. Ethereal but dangerous. A guiding light tinged with darkness. Beautiful imperfection.

“Juggie, you’re staring.”

“You look…” Jughead found his voice and cleared his throat. “You look like real-life Betty Cooper.”

Betty’s heart swelled. It was exactly what she needed to hear. That was one of the reasons she loved him. And Jughead Jones, her brooding, aloof, sardonic boyfriend, very rarely said anything that he didn’t mean, so she knew that he meant it, and she knew exactly what he meant.

They’d had conversations about how she felt about herself, who she was and who she wanted to become. She _was_ pastels and unicorns and rainbows—just because pink wasn’t her favorite color, it didn’t mean she didn’t like it, because she did—but she was also so much more than that. One of the reasons she couldn’t wait to go to college was to break free from the expectations of being good little Elizabeth Cooper. No more hiding in pastels, she wanted all her colors to shine through. She let Jughead see that girl, in her ideas and hopes, and even her interest in a very specific subculture. So Jughead knew her, who she really was, the real-life Betty Cooper.

She pressed a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth with gratitude for his words and asked, “You ready?”

Jughead buttoned up his flannel shirt before grabbing the hotel room key cards from the TV stand. He slid one into his wallet and held the other out to Betty. “Let’s do this.”

The car ride to the show venue didn’t take long. It took longer to find street parking and walk the few city blocks back to the venue. The venue was actually a church that served as a community center of sorts, renting out its basement hall for arts and cultural events that apparently included angry alternative rock shows. It seemed strange to be at a church surrounded by kids wearing black shirts that showcased bands with some very ungodly names on them, but it was a venue with a storied history in Philadelphia’s local hardcore scene nonetheless. 

They showed their IDs at the will call table set up by the basement entrance (it was an all-ages show so Jughead didn’t have to use his Delaware one) to collect their tickets and checked the set times posted on the door. There were people outside smoking, chatting, and laughing. Betty and Jughead listened to the first band from outside, enjoying the spring air, since the time spent finding parking meant that the show had already started briefly before they arrived. They talked about Hot Dog and Archie’s newest conquest and Jughead’s last collect call conversation with FP from prison.

Their topics of discussion presented them with some irony. They both wanted so badly to get out of Riverdale. They’d even scrambled to make their weekend plan work. So they _could_ leave. But the town never left them.

They made it inside the venue during set change, just before the second band took the stage. The album of a not-hardcore band that Betty had on her New Jersey playlist played through the PA system while the stage was set up with a drum kit and amps. It was different than outside. The ceiling was low and the walls were wood-paneled. There was a colorful carpet that resembled a children’s patchwork quilt set down on the stage. The air was warm. But it wasn’t just the room full of body heat and chatter that made it feel that way. It was the same way that Betty’s choice of lip color made Jughead feel. It was an attitude.

The kids around all kind of looked like him, dark clothing and too many layers for the temperature of the room. Except instead of the scowl he usually carried on his face, everyone seemed genuinely happy to be there. He noticed the smiles that reached laugh lines. Handshakes and hugs as eyes met across the room; friends catching up and friends making new friends. It was just an all-ages show on a Saturday night. But it seemed to be so much more. Something therapeutic. Something sacred. Something special. In that room, with those kids, everything was unbreakable. The world couldn’t get to them and break their hearts.

The room was filled closer to capacity when the second band started. They were a pretty big youth crew band from California that had toured for a few years. On another night they probably could have been the headlining band, but it was one of Philadelphia’s very own who’d close out the night later on.

Betty and Jughead were standing near the back of the room close to a wall as the well-loved band from California started. They stood shoulder to shoulder, taking in the scene that unfolded in front of them. They’d come prepared. After all, Betty had done copious amounts of research and Jughead had kept up with it. They’d both watched videos of shows and seen what happened; words full of conviction screamed in unison, stage dives, circle pits, and appreciative applause when vocalists made socially conscious statements in between songs.

But actually being there to experience it was still different than any video on YouTube. The energy created by the intermix of the band and the crowd was on a different plane of intensity than could be delivered in the high quality of 1080p or even 4K. To be there in person, to feel the beat of the drums in their chests, to stand on the outer edge of the circle pit, and to hear the passion with which lyrics were yelled out with closed (but not clenched) fists and finger points, it was a warm blood rush. It put the fire in Betty’s eyes again.

Jughead could feel what it did to Betty whenever their arms brushed. He could feel from the way she breathed, the sharp intake of her breath as she watched the scene unfold, whenever her shoulder pressed into his bicep. She was teetering on edge in the best kind of way, ready for what the night would bring. She wanted _more_.

When the band finished and the house lights came back on, Betty told Jughead that she’d spotted someone eating deep fried zucchini and wanted to investigate. Since the venue was a church basement, there was a kitchen for light concessions. He leaned against the wall and pulled his phone from his pocket as she walked away. There were several people leaning against the wood-paneled walls. He opened the Yelp app and was met with hundreds of results of his earlier query: cheesesteaks. Only he would look up food just as his girlfriend had gone off in pursuit.

The problem with searching for cliché food in the city it was known for was that every establishment claimed they had the best version of it, and the locals were loyal to what they were used to, so each establishment had supportive comments about being the best, too. Jughead was a pretty equal opportunity eater—he’d devour pretty much anything—but he was also a writer and if something was going to be described as _the best_ , he wanted it to actually be that.

“Hey man,” a voice to Jughead’s left interrupted his review reading. “You should check out Jim’s.”

When Jughead glanced up, there was a kid beside him, on his own phone, casually checking NHL box scores. Jughead’s natural reaction was to wonder why the guy was being nosy, glancing at someone else’s business, making comment about it. He was used to the prying eyes in Riverdale; the ones always telling him he didn’t blend in, the ones who dismissed him, the ones that had made him seek solace on the south side. But he remembered where he was, he remembered that this was supposed to be a scene set apart because of open minds and hearts, so he responded, “Is it near here?”

The guy nodded and quickly explained it was just a few miles away on South Street and it would be open late after the show. The kid—Scott—introduced himself and they talked briefly about the band on Scott’s shirt. When Jughead brought out his sarcasm as the conversation continued into a new topic, Scott didn’t seem to mind, and threw it right back at him with his own. It wasn’t with malice or ill intent that either of them did it. Actually, Jughead noted, it was kind of friendly. It reminded him how far from Riverdale he was.

Betty returned with a little cardboard tray of deep fried zucchini in hand. Her eyes were sparkling and her innocent-dangerous lipstick had a berry tone to it under the house lights. Her eyes shifted back and forth between Scott and Jughead a few times. She looked to her boyfriend to read the expression in his steely blue eyes. They were always doing that, communicating without any words at all. When Jughead didn’t give her a pained look, she smiled at them both.

“These were cooked in avocado oil,” was the first thing she said to Jughead, then addressed his new acquaintance directly, “Hi, I’m Betty!”

“Scott.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed quickly, holding out the tiny tray of fried vegetables to Jughead. “I forgot the water! It’s so nice to meet you, Scott. Hold on, I’ll be right back.”

The tips of Jughead’s fingers met hers briefly as he took the food from her and she tried to shoot him an apologetic look, quickly turning back towards the kitchen to retrieve the bottle of water she’d paid for and left there.

“Your girlfriend?” Scott gestured at the direction Betty had left in.

Jughead thought he could hear different layers in Scott’s voice. Disbelief, maybe, and definitely a hint of jealousy.

“Yeah,” Jughead answered with a gratified smile. “That’s Betty.”

The expression that Scott gave him was incredulous, like he was some incarnation of a comic book character brought to life. Jughead couldn’t tell if it was more that the guy couldn’t believe that a kid like him, Jughead Jones, was dating gorgeous, blonde Betty Cooper, or the fact that they’d introduced themselves with the names _Jughead_ and _Betty_ in the 21st century. He wondered how Scott would react if he knew that all of Jughead’s knowledge and interest in hardcore was because of Betty. He wondered what he’d think if he knew why it was so important to Betty in the first place. But Scott didn’t know them. He didn’t know about Jason Blossom or Fred Andrews. He didn’t know about the Coopers, about their expectations, or about Chic. He didn’t know about the circumstances in Riverdale or the situation with the Serpents.

Jughead knew, too, that he didn’t know Scott, didn’t know his circumstances. And if the principles and values rang true in the room, like the singers yelled about in their songs, they were in a safe space. What mattered was the music and the collective of the room of kids involved in it. What mattered was why he was there—what mattered was Betty.

“So what’d I miss?” Betty wondered when she was back with a bottle of water in hand.

She searched Jughead’s eyes again, looking for an alarm signal that he wanted to step away. Being an outsider was something he actually reveled in. Putting him in a situation where he was just a kid in a crowd, where he wasn’t the only special flower of his kind that he believed himself to be, that was the kind of thing that made him lash out. Because that was just Jughead—morally superior and a bit pretentious, still guarding himself with walls to anyone except her. She hadn’t expected to see him talking to someone. Hell, she’d walked away twice and he still stood there talking to the same person.

But Jughead’s eyes were playful, like he knew something she didn’t.

“Scott’s in a band,” Jughead told her. “And he has a ‘zine.”

Betty’s eyes lit up. She quickly took over the conversation with Scott while the last band set up the stage for their set. Jughead was content to stand there eating the fried zucchini she’d bought, not making much contribution. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her lips as she talked a million miles a minute with Scott about the logistics of running a ‘zine out of his college dorm room, about the content, about the burning questions that he had for the singer of the band they were about to watch. Her mauvy tones flew all around her like spitfire, flowing from the words that left her mouth, the nervous tension in her shoulders, the danger in her eyes.

That was Betty, all right. Never testing the waters, just diving in headfirst. He’d asked her several times not to do certain things—to not show up at Southside High by herself, to not plan to meet him at his foster family’s house, to not write about injustices handed down to the Serpents by Sheriff Keller (they were still a _gang_ after all)—but she still did them anyway. He’d told her that he always wanted to keep her safe. She’d claimed that if even their favorite booth at Pop’s wasn’t safe anymore, after what happened to Fred Andrews, then safety had long been chased out of Riverdale. She’d said safe was only when they were together.

He was pretty sure that Scott was halfway to in love with his girlfriend by the time the stage was set up and band members filed onto the stage, hands strumming instruments and bouncing on balls of feet, ready to begin. And how couldn’t he be? She was feminine, a feminist, smart and beautiful, dark and light, a gear head, and now, a champion for aggressive music with feeling and meaning. She was like some sort of prototype. But _not_ perfect, which made her even better.

Jughead had always found it unsettling that everyone in Riverdale demanded so much from Betty without ever acknowledging that she was really just too good for them anyway. Out in the real world, she already had a stocky, hockey fan, bearded straight edge college kid—who had absolutely no chance in hell with her—wrapped around her little finger, and she’d known him for all of ten minutes.

Jughead wasn’t the possessive type. And Betty certainly didn’t need to carry that kind of weight from him while she was holding her own. It wasn’t the time or place. But damn if he didn’t want to toss his fried food on the ground and sling his arm around her waist in a _yeah, I’m with her_ kind of way. Instead he took comfort in the feel of her shoulder pressed into his arm, that he was the one that got to stand there doing that, and not anyone else.

Scott bid them good night, wishing them well and telling them to enjoy Jim’s just as the house lights went back down, signaling the set start for the last band of the night. He drifted in between the gaps of people, going up closer to the stage until he disappeared into the throng of bodies. The room grew warmer as kids filled up any gaps of space and conversations died down to nothing. It had been a good decision on Jughead’s part not to wear a jacket. The plaid flannel and wool beanie that he sported were getting uncomfortably warm.

Jughead and Betty moved away from the wall to toss out the empty tray of food, and Jughead took possession of the bottle of water as the singer said a few words of thanks to the hometown crowd for coming out to the show. He spoke into the microphone of how privileged he felt to put on shows and play them, to be a grown-ass man with a career and a family but still be proud to be a hardcore kid after so many years.

“Remember that we are about more than just heavy breakdowns to headbang to. We are about community. Hardcore is a community,” the singer addressed the crowd with conviction, wrapping the microphone cord loosely around his arm to keep it from getting lost in the midst of everything once the music started. “Please take care of each other out there tonight. Let’s have fun.”

No sooner than the word ‘fun’ was uttered did the drummer begin to build a tempo with his sticks, all kick drum and snare. The low, heavy bass tones were next, producing a hollow rhythm that matched the drumming. The guitarist intentionally made a feedback loop between his guitar and amp as he strummed dissonant chords, creating a sound that was tense, cutting through the air of the room. As the band played together, Jughead recognized when the drawn out instrumental part flowed into the intro to one of their songs.

He closed his eyes for a moment, focusing on the sounds that filled the room and ricocheted in his chest. He wondered if the way it made him feel was something he’d never be able to put into words and describe perfectly. When he’d listened to it before, with headphones or through speakers hooked up to his old record player, he’d noted the intensity and urgency of it all. That was tenfold when it was living and breathing, in the flesh, staring him in the face. It gave him chills and hair-raising goosebumps.

Just as the singer thrust the microphone out to the crowd to start the song, Jughead opened his eyes. He meant to nod his head along to the music but stopped short of it when he noticed that the pressure of Betty’s shoulder against him was gone. Betty was gone.

He scanned the immediate vicinity quickly, a little panicked. Jughead was far back enough in the room that everyone around him was still, as he was, enjoying the music with no more than a head nod or hand drumming against a chest. He looked towards the stage. It was harder to look for any semblance of Betty in the chaos of bodies moshing, arms raised in unison, hanging on to every note and word of the song. There was a constant of kids stage diving and in the middle of the room, a small circle pit.

Jughead sighed, worried about his girlfriend. He had grown street smart, tough even, if he needed to be. He’d also come along to the show to support Betty. His intention was still to observe from afar, take it all in from a distance, stay in his comfort zone. Just because he looked like the kids that surrounded him and was dressed like them and enjoyed the music, it didn’t mean he wanted to be one of them. Just because he wasn’t soft anymore it didn’t mean he wanted to navigate through the throng of people to rescue Betty if she’d bit off more than she could chew.

But Jughead felt bad for having those thoughts almost as soon as he had them. Not because he didn’t want to keep Betty safe—he always did, and he would always come through. But because he spotted her in the crowd. She was up near the front of the room, where the lights still illuminated the first few rows of kids. He saw the flash of her golden hair and megawatt smile as she sang along when another song started. She wasn’t hurt. She had a handle on herself and everything going on around her. He should have never doubted her or the place they were in.

He saw her as alone in the crowd. She was a vision of elation, lost to the music without her demons and burdens weighing her down. It was the outlet that she needed for her pent up frustration. He wished she could be that way, feel that way, all the time, without everything waiting back in Riverdale. Her light gleamed with all of her colors. She was connected to the sound and the message. She was brave for seeking this out, for letting the fire in her heart move her rather than dousing the flames away.

Jughead dug the cellphone from his pocket and opened the Notes app. Maybe he _would_ be able to write down the experience, what it felt like, what it was about. Maybe he could use it for his novel, give depth to a character, offer a contrast in light and dark, and how sometimes those things weren’t opposite at all. He typed down what the singer had said before they started playing. Jughead tapped to underline a word, _community_ , before locking the screen and sliding his phone back into his pocket.

He was a witness to community that night, more than he’d seen anywhere else. That was a bit baffling considering he was from a small town and had a foot in with a biker gang, two things which were meant to have inherent community qualities. It was different the way these kids treated each other, with a natural respect and even love. To someone who didn’t know, it probably looked violent and turbulent, the same that he’d thought at first listen. But it was actually vehement passion with a purpose. The actions of the room flirted on the edge of violence and danger but always remained at controlled chaos. It was about coming together and letting what darkness they held in their hearts ring out in that safe space rather than becoming destructive in their day-to-day lives.

To Jughead, it was like Betty, like her color for the night. It was a representation of her, part of who she was and wanted to be. It was her big dreams. It was how she saw the world, still with optimism, how she was determined to make a difference with her lionheart.

The two of them weren’t face to face again until the show was finished. Kids were moving every which way, towards the exit, towards the merch table, towards the friends they hadn’t caught up with yet. Jughead sent Betty a text to let her know they should meet outside and gulped down what was left in the bottle of water he was still holding before tossing it in a recycling bin as he made it out the door. He stood on the sidewalk at the corner of the street and removed his flannel, unhooked his suspenders from his shoulders and let them droop against his legs, then tied the plaid shirt around his waist. It was a few minutes before Betty appeared. He gave her the smile with the touch of dimples at the corners of his mouth as she walked towards him.

Her hair was pulled up into a ponytail. It was set in the same position as one of her signature ponytails and just as tight, but nowhere near as neat as a signature. It looked like she’d used her fingers to comb her hair into place and tied it back hastily when the heat inside the venue had risen. Stray baby hairs framed her face like a halo. She was a little disheveled—imperfect hair, sweaty temple, flaked mascara fallen to the high points of her cheeks. But her cat eyeliner could still cut a bitch. The pout of her lips was still adorned perfectly in that temptress shade of danger and innocence.

She was good girl Betty and pure Betty and real-life Betty Cooper all at once. Jughead was sure that he loved every version of her. Every marvel. Every color.

Their arms brushed up against each other again as they began the walk back to Veronica’s car silently, ears ringing and adrenaline still coursing through their veins. The cool night air of spring was a comfort from the heat of the crowded room they’d just left. When they were a block away from the car, Betty grabbed onto Jughead’s hand. She interweaved their fingers and squeezed his palm tightly. She looked up at him with doe eyes and bit her bottom lip. “Are you mad?”

“No.” Jughead frowned and squeezed her hand back. “Why would you think I’m mad?”

“I know I kind of ended up ditching you back there,” Betty sighed. “You’re being really quiet.”

“Quiet means mad now?”

“I mean you’re…you’re _you_ , Juggie,” she tried again. “You have an opinion about everything.”

Jughead snorted. Her blunt honesty was about his, so he went along with it. “Well, you _did_ make me eat deep fried _vegetables_.”

“Hey!” Betty’s voice raised an octave at his sarcasm. “I didn’t _make_ you! You polished them off and you didn’t even offer me any.”

Her indignant outburst earned her a chuckle from Jughead. He’d been too busy letting her take charge, immersing herself in the moment while she’d been discussing ‘zines and an upcoming hardcore music festival, to think about sharing the food that she’d bought. He’d even downed all of the water without a second thought. He looked her in the eye as they continued their walk. “I swear I’m not mad, Betty. Not even a little bit. I’m just thinking. Trying to commit everything to memory. You were amazing.”

“ _Me?_ ” she said pointedly.

“Yeah,” Jughead nodded. “You.”

Betty raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you mean the bands? The kids?”

“I mean _you_ ,” he reiterated as they reached their borrowed black Lexus hatchback.

The look Betty gave him was quizzical, prompting for further explanation. Jughead let go of her hand and settled his palms on her hips. The street lights above them illuminated her face in a soft glow.

“I see you, Betty. I always see you. You know that. And tonight when I saw you, in there, you were…everything. And I don’t mean the ‘everything’ at home that’s the white noise, the bullshit that gets in the way,” Jughead’s Adam’s apple visibly bobbed in his throat when he swallowed as he rushed to speak, “I know that’s not a good explanation—and I don’t want to burden you with any more pressure, if anything I want to share the burden with you—but that’s what you were. _You_ were _everything_.”

A hint of a smile played on Betty’s lips. There he was, Jughead Jones—natural born writer, quick wit, unmistakable sarcasm, and caustic tongue—and he’d produced word vomit. He’d done it trying to express how she made him feel. She thought it was really sweet. She could already imagine what Veronica would say if she knew; she’d throw out phrases like _um, hello, swoon_ and _so extra_.

“I can’t wait until this is all real,” Jughead spoke again, letting go of her to gesture at the air around them. “I can’t wait to get out of Riverdale with you.”

Betty led him towards the car so that he was leaned against it and their foreheads were touching. “I think about that every day.”

Jughead made room for Betty so she could stand between his legs. He anchored his arms around her waist and responded softly, “You’re incredible, Betts. You deserve the world.”

She pulled back a little so they could see each other clearly. Her hands moved up to cup his face, one thumb stroking at his cheek.

“So do you,” she said sincerely.

Betty always wore her heart on her sleeve so she was sure that Jughead knew how she felt about him. She hoped he knew that she wanted him to feel as special as he made her feel, and that all her hopes and dreams included him by her side, flourishing in his own success.

He answered by bringing his mouth down to hers, capturing her lips in a kiss. It was soft at first, all lips, eyes closing and fingertips tracing jawlines. It got more heated when Betty leaned into it. Her tongue went in his mouth as her fist grabbed at the collar of his flannel shirt to bring him closer. His fingers skimmed at bare skin above the waistband of her jeans. Their kissing lasted entirely way too long for a public sidewalk in the city, near midnight, under the haze of street lights. They melted into a tight embrace when it ended, breathing each other in, nuzzling necks and shoulders gently. Even with their ears still ringing and hearts fluttering, they had clarity.

Eventually, Betty reached into Jughead’s back pocket, snatching the car key.

“Come on, Juggie,” she tugged at his sleeve. “I need to make good on my last promise. Let’s get you a cheesesteak.”

**_Fin._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this was an ambitious final chapter. I think that this whole thing was more character study and development disguised as a story instead of…a real story. The reason for that is that I want to write more stories with this version of Bughead (without the color theme and with very few mentions of music moving forward - that was just for this story) and sequence them all into a series of different moments in time (spoiler alert: _[Heartthrob](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11241057)_ would probably be the last story in the series so you already know it's a happy ending no matter what I put them through). I feel like when more of the stories are actually written, this story will matter more to the grand scheme of it all.
> 
> On tumblr: [Extended Story Notes](http://jerepars.tumblr.com/post/163975027885/lionheart-extended-story-notes) for this chapter and the [series storyboard](http://jerepars.tumblr.com/post/163975039130/everything-series-storyboard-i-realize-that-i-am). I’m working on the one called _Nightingale_ right now, and after that deleted scene we got yesterday, I’m even more pumped to come up with what Alice thinks of Jughead both as a teenager and in the future. If there's a story you want to see prioritized, or you have a suggestion for a story, etc. let me know! My messages and ask box are always open. P.S. I am a nice girl, let’s be friends.
> 
> If you’re here, at the end, thank you so much for reading. To everyone that has left kudos and comments, I am truly grateful. Your feedback is always appreciated. <3


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